KOSOVO

CHAPTER One

 The Kosovo Conflict, as it had been called on news programs for months, had ended. Its demise was just made official by the President of the United States, standing between two flags behind a podium with a very official looking insignia on it. He said it, so it must be true. Marc Gorman got up from the sofa and hit the mute button on the remote. Amazing, he thought, how a man so embroiled in controversy could be taken as the authority on such a matter. "There's been conflict there for a thousand years," he said aloud, "but one word from the leader of the free world and doves are carrying olive branches."

Living alone, Marc often talked to himself. His house, formerly Grandpa Gorman’s, was a big old drafty place, and he often sang, whistled or talked to himself just to combat the overwhelming quiet. He’d lived within blocks of this house his whole life. His parents had moved back east after his grandfather died, but he chose to stay in Washington. His excuse at the time was his commitment to school, but it was more than that. Even after leaving college during his second year, he chose to stay here, alone.

 Marc stepped outside and walked to the mailbox. Opening it, he found a couple of bills, along with the latest issue of Art/Craft. He closed the box and turned back toward the house. As he stepped inside, he glanced again at the television. The distinguished Chief of Staff was now addressing the ladies and gentlemen of the press; probably touting his aid campaign for the Balkans, as he had been since January. Marc dropped the bills on the table as he walked by and passed through to the backyard. Unfolding the magazine, he leaned into the hammock and settled in as it swung back under his weight.

 The hammock was one of Marc's few pleasures. Struggling to make a living as an artist for 20 years was taking its toll. He yearned for the recognition he felt he deserved. Now he relaxed in his beloved hammock, opened his magazine, and groaned.

 "She's still at it," he grumbled to himself. "It just isn't fair"

 "Nothing's fair. That's the point."

 Randy approached and took up his customary station on the bench by the fence.  T. Randall Laird had been one of Marc's best friends through high school and college, and when the opportunity arose to open a studio together, they both dove in. Although it had lasted less than a year, they'd remained friends and artistic compatriots, and each took turns hanging out in the other's garage/studio. Randy, too, had stayed put while other friends and family had moved away, and now lived three doors down.

 "Who's she fawning over this time?" Randy asked, noticing the magazine as he sat.

 "She says this guy's work evokes solemn remembrances of Monet and Renoir."

 She was Sara Armstrong, a recent addition to Art/Craft. It was Marc's opinion that she was an overeducated hack with a grade-school knowledge of art and an abundant supply of adjectives.

"Ah, Miss Armstrong. You never cease to amaze."

"I just don't get it, Rand. You've had some good reviews. What do you have to do to get a write-up like that?"

"Marcus, my friend, you don't want a write-up like that. Get over it."

He didn't get over it, though. Throughout the day, as Marc sat at his wheel throwing and detailing a series of vases, he couldn't get the article off his mind. Nearing 40, starting to show a little gray at the temples and a little paunch around the belt, he felt his work should have been noticed by now. He should be known. By day's end, he was righteously indignant at the irony of it all. Someone with such a weak understanding of the artist, writing for an art magazine.

Marc washed up and went down the hall to his bedroom. Sitting down at his desk, he glanced again at the magazine. Sometime during the day Randy had embellished it with an eyepatch and moustache, but Sara Armstrong's picture still filled him with grief. He read through her column again, line after line of glowing praise for an artist whose work was quite obviously inferior to his own. Then he noticed her e-mail address at the end of the article, and turned on his computer.

b c b

Art/Craft was the latest stepping-stone along Sara Armstrong's steady path toward success. Fresh from school, she had landed a job entering subscriptions for a small publishing house whose focus was celebrity gossip rags. She faithfully entered the names and addresses of countless housewives longing for their daily fill of Hollywood scandal.

From there she had moved to Argus Publishing, which held among its stable of periodicals one of the most well-read news magazines around, Viewpoint. Viewpoint was the latest apple of her eye; the reason she had moved to Argus. She often ate in the Viewpoint lunchroom two floors above her own at Art/Craft, just to see and be seen by those she hoped would be her future colleagues. Above all, Sara felt she was destined to be a real journalist, covering real news instead of writing her small column on local arts. Still, she gave it her all, hoping someone, someday, would read her reviews and take notice.

Apparently, someone had.

Roger Parker, editor of Art/Craft, had dropped by her desk last Friday and given Sara her first real assignment. It was to be a five-page article covering emerging artists of the West Coast. She had six weeks to pull it all together, and even had a travel budget. Roger had often praised her writing, and was now suggesting that she get out and see some of these local artists in their natural habitat.

"I want something different," he said. "Find a painter from here, a sculptor from there, a weaver or woodworker from somewhere else. I want the viewpoint of the regional artist, and how he's affected and inspired by his immediate surroundings."

The viewpoint, he had said. It was music to her ears. Here was a chance to do some real research, to prove herself as a journalist. It permeated her thoughts all weekend, and by Monday she had the rough outline complete. Surely somebody up here must read Art/Craft, she thought as she sat in the Viewpoint lunchroom. She looked up at the television as she pulled out her laptop, imagining herself dreamily as one of the reporters asking questions of the president. "Mr. President," she'd say, "How can you say the conflict is over when, just hours ago, snipers were attacking our peacekeepers there?" The reporters around her would squirm uncomfortably at the boldness of her question.

Turning on her computer, she pulled out the sheet Roger had given her, listing possible artists to contact. The computer booted up and sounded the tone announcing e-mail. Through a series of clicks and drags, she opened her mailbox and read its contents one by one. Lower insurance rates, promised weight loss, get-rich-quick schemes; she quickly looked them over and deleted them.

The next message read "From a tremendous admirer" from mgorman@artnet.org. She clicked on it and read.

 "Miss Armstrong," it began. "I have just finished reading your column on the functional pottery show at the Newdale. If found your insights into the mind of the artist remarkable, and your descriptions - breathtaking! I am a ceramic artist in Pasco, Washington, near the Oregon border and have exhibited my own work once or twice at the Newdale. I only wish it had been critiqued by such a fine trained eye as yours. Obviously, you have a great deal of experience with fine arts and crafts. Your observations of the subtle nuances of color and form brought new life to my stifled creativity, and forced me to look within to evaluate my own work more objectively. Sadly, I find it lacking the inspiration and energy you describe, and I doubt if I can continue this delusional pursuit of perfect creative harmony. Thank you for providing the impetus for this soul-searching, and for holding up a mirror with which to reflect my own work. Most sincerely, Marc Gorman."

She looked at the screen apprehensively. Either this Gorman was coming on to her or he was the most sarcastic creep on the planet. She glanced down at the list of suggestions Roger had given her. '"Either way its worth a call" she said to herself, and wrote "Gorman - Potter, Washington" at the bottom of Roger's list.

b c b

Marc awoke to the sound of the telephone ringing. Reaching drowsily across the bed, he lifted the receiver. "Mr. Gorman," the slightly southern voice on the other end said, "This is Lucy from First National. We spoke last week and you promised to send a check on Wednesday. Mr. Gorman?"

So, they'd given up on interrupting his dinners and were now interrupting his sleep.

'"I'm sorry," Marc groaned; "I've just woken up. Give me a while to get dressed and find my checkbook, and I'll call you back before noon, okay?"

"Please do, Mr. Gorman," Lucy drawled, and the line went dead.

Marc set down the receiver and rolled over in bed, staring at the ceiling. Not a great way to start the day, he thought. He took the notepad from beside the phone and beneath '"ship pot" and "get clay," he wrote, "pay bills."

Marc sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, still looking at his list. The pot being shipped was to replace one that had been shipped six weeks earlier. Arriving broken, the customer had called to request a replacement.

"It's not like I can just take another one off the shelf," he had told her. "This is art. Each piece is different, individual. I'll make another as close as possible to yours which broke" - Marc was always careful to refer to the customer's ownership of the pot, to dissuade them from backing out and requesting a refund - "and I'll talk to the shipper. It was insured."

Both efforts had been futile. The shipper stated flatly that they were not liable if the pot was packaged poorly. Not only that, but they felt the value stated on the claim was obviously more than the pot was worth. As for the replacement, Marc had thrown 3 vases, glazed and fired them each exactly like he had the first, but the color was no match. They were each beautiful in their own right, but there had been something wonderful about that first pot, something which he could not duplicate on demand.

He hated the shipping company, yet here he was, about to trust a second pot to the same hooligans who destroyed the first. For all he knew, they crushed it on purpose, art-hating apes who thought he'd overstated the value of his own work, so - stomp! He'd even fired off a nasty letter berating the entire shipping industry and their company in particular.

Between the three replacements and the series of vases yesterday, he was running dangerously low on clay. Once again he was juggling expenses to see who got paid first, while still maintaining a supply of clay and glazes. Now the creditors were beginning to make noises again, pushing to the front of the line.

"No," he said loudly, 'I've got to make the pots to pay the vultures." Emphatically, he circled "get clay."